


The Deep Roll

by MoiraiThanatoio



Series: First Principles [1]
Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, Hannibal - Thomas Harris, Red Dragon - Thomas Harris, Silence of the Lambs - Thomas Harris
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossover, Gen, Serial Killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:50:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoiraiThanatoio/pseuds/MoiraiThanatoio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of apparently unconnected murders in Las Vegas have a darker tie than anyone could suspect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Deep Roll

Prologue

The Las Vegas crime lab was unusually somber and quiet for an early morning. Typically, the time after the change between night and day shifts remained busy until early afternoon. Today, the early court news was depressing even the most chipper employee.

“I’m holding you personally responsible for this, Grissom.”

“What?”

The night supervisor’s reaction was unsurprising. It wasn’t the first, nor likely the last, time that Conrad Ecklie made such an unfair, bilateral decision.

“The Sheriff needs answers and I’m not responsible for this case. The Mapp murder was your shift. We went from a lock on a grand jury indictment to nothing. And why? Because the evidence walked out of the lab on your shift and without that evidence, the preliminary conclusions are insufficient.”

Grissom flexed his jaw, his face tight. “We are investigating the evidence theft.”

“In the meantime, the Federal Bureau of Investigation wants answers. There is a dead federal agent, Grissom.”

Suppressing his overall opinion of the FBI, he stared at Conrad. “What exactly do you want me to do here, Ecklie?”

“I want you to get me my answers. There needs to be a solution as to what happened to that evidence. There needs to be a conclusion on who raped and murdered Ardelia Mapp.”

Gil Grissom could move fairly quickly when inspired. This most recent of altercations with the administrator had not improved his usually mild disposition.

The criminal psychologist standing in the waiting area watched his approach. While he’d never met the forensic entomologist, the man’s body told a story. His measured pace, careful posture, and composed features were at war with the tension around the mouth and eyes or the glint of light in the emotion-altered pupils. It was a classifiable reaction speaking of locked down anger and frustration.

“Dr. Grissom?”

The man in question paused, expectant curiosity on his face as he turned. He noted the careful suit of a repetitive expert witness. Obviously, the man was not attached to any case associated with him, as there was not even the glimmer of recognition. With polite detachment, he inquired, “Yes?”

The man offered his hand, taken to shake in an automatic courtesy. It was released suddenly when the introduction was completed.

“Dr. Alan Bloom. As I was in town on business, I wanted to offer my condolences for your brother. I was not able to locate the services or internment site or I would have done so much sooner.”

Gil Grissom was closed off as he replied, “Dr. Bloom, you should understand that I don’t normally discuss my brother. His suicide was a selfish choice, doubly so as he made me a witness. However, as I’m sure you’ll understand, it was his wish there be no services and his ashes scattered.”

Alan nodded, conscious of the person moving through the lobby area. “I can understand his possible concern about… unwelcome… attendees.”

Grissom rolled his eyes. It was a gesture of impatience that he didn’t even realize he shared with his deceased sibling. Dr. Blood suppressed his own irritation. He could understand the man’s antipathy for anyone associated with the largely unpleasant history.

Standing, Alan gathered himself together. “As I said, Dr. Grissom, you have my condolences.”

Gil stood in the lobby and allowed the mix of humanity to move around him. Careful and deliberate breathing kept his hands from shaking. But none of the noise was blocking out the remembered sound of a gunshot echoing down a telephone line.

 

Interlude One

“Housekeeping.”

The faint echo of the cue to enter came through the hotel suite from the closet in the bedroom. A slender female figure pushed the maid’s cart inside. An automatic gesture smoothed her uniform apron. But in violation of hotel policy, she closed and locked the suite door.

“Can I get some extra towels?”

Not responding, the woman gathered two of the fluffy white linens in her arms. Beneath the shielding cloth, a rubber and plastic grip rested firmly in her right hand.

“Just leave them there.”

The woman still didn’t respond. She simply laid the short pile where directed on the bed. Turning, she was within a foot of the man before he realized that something was wrong.

The metal bladed instrument she’d kept in her hand sliced into his body. His eyes widened, shocked recognition coasting along his synapses. A single hand on his chest held him upright as he grasped her wrist. The polyester blend sleeve of the uniform rasped uncomfortably against her skin. She withdrew the weapon, allowing it to fall. Stepping back, she twisted her wrist free and he stumbled.

“You can survive this wound, so I’ll call for help.”

 

Chapter One

Warrick Brown walked through the subdued elegance of the Embassy Suites Hotel and Convention Center. His assignment to this case had included the room number within the hotel. Except for the floor, the specifics of the room number were hardly ever needed. The simple police presence always directed them where to go.

Entering the suite, afternoon sunlight glowed upon the taupe carpet. This wasn’t one of the glitzy strip hotels, but it was one preferred by the professional conventions drawn to the city.

Approached by the one scene detective, Warrick settled his kit box on a nearby table. He was slipping gloves on his hands in a well-practiced movement as he asked, “What have we got?”

Detective Veiga flipped open the ubiquitous small notebook and began to recite the facts of the case.

“This room is registered to a Dr. Alan Bloom. Our DB appears to have been stabbed in the closet, then crawled into the bedroom where he expired. We’ll need prints or a visual confirmation but it's likely Dr. Bloom. He did a presentation yesterday afternoon on serial killers for a psychologists' convention, the last before it ended. Found by housekeeping because he hadn’t checked out.”

Warrick had moved through the suite, taking a quick visual observation of the crime scene. Just from that single look at the blood patterns, he could see that it was an accurate observation of the move from closet to bedroom. Warrick crouched in the closet next to a blood covered object.

“The coroner can confirm it, but this may be our murder weapon.”

He lifted it carefully after the requisite pictures. Turning it carefully, he peered at the label on the handle.

“Warner Linoleum Knife.”

Warrick looked quizzically at the detective before continuing, “Where do you get a linoleum knife in a hotel not under renovation?”

Veiga shrugged, referring once again to his notebook. “Here’s the kicker… We’ve got a room service order for last night. The sheet says to bring the order inside but the waiter signed the check and left it at the door.”

Warrick looked at the scene again. “Huh.”

***

Hours later, Warrick’s footsteps echoed through the autopsy room. He crossed to the coroner, gesturing at the draped body.

“What can you tell me, doc?”

Dr. Robbins pulled the sheet low on the cadaver. He pointed at the wound with precise movements.

“Prints confirmed the body as Alan Bloom. He had a single laceration to the abdomen. We’re talking extensive internal damage.”

“Cause of death?”

“Exsanguination. He simply bled out. I’ve determined time of death to be around midnight.”

“There was a room service order delivered around nine, left at the door.”

Al shrugged. “Should have knocked. If he’d been found… Well, it would have been a long hospital stay but he may have survived.”

Warrick only sighed. “We found a construction tool – a linoleum knife – at the scene.”

“That type of tool isn’t designed for stabbing, although it does have a refined edge. It’s consistent with the residual bruising around the entry wound.”

***

Near the end of his shift, Warrick was reviewing his newest case and cursing. There was no trace. There were no fingerprints that weren’t either the victim’s or housekeeping. There was no DNA that wasn’t the victim’s.

Slamming the file closed, Warrick mused to himself, “How the hell would a housekeeper leave a perfectly fucking clean crime scene?”

 

Chapter Two

Nick knocked on the door frame. He could see from the entryway that Grissom was distracted. At his knock, the older man looked over.

“Nick… Can I do something for you?”

The swing shift CSI smiled slightly as he helped himself to one of the chairs across the desk. “Actually, you could say this is more a social visit.”

“A social visit?”

Nick grinned at the blatant incredulity that accompanied the arch of Grissom’s brow. His natural humor mellowed as he brought up the reason for his presence.

“I heard about Warrick’s case.” He shrugged as he paused but continued quickly, “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Cause you knew the guy… and it’s always hard when you know the victim.”

Grissom settled back in his chair, folding his hands in front of him. His personal reactions were well concealed behind a habitually impassive façade.

“I appreciate your concern, Nicky. Dr. Bloom was merely an acquaintance, not a friend. I’m fine.”

Nick’s grin flashed, quick and easy across his face. “I should get going then… flight to catch.”

“You’re flying to Texas?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a sister getting married.”

Grissom began to shuffle papers. He gathered the pieces necessary for his own shift. Smiling his own sparse, enigmatic smile at the younger man he added, “Have a good trip, Nicky.”

 

Interlude Two

Emergency lights flashed as the police car eased to a stop behind a late model Honda Acura. The officer inside radioed his position and the reason for his stop. As he opened the door of his car, the camera inside began to record.

Taking a shooter’s stance behind the door, he called out to the driver, “Step out of the car slowly and put your hands on your head.”

He never had to demand to see the driver’s hands. Cops were trained to give every opportunity for cooperation. While the officer had been cautious, he had been stopping a stolen car clocked speeding. He could never have expected the purely sociopathic, violent reaction.

Turning in the seat, it first appeared that the female driver was cooperating. But the night hid the non-reflective object in her right hand. Dropping to a single knee stance, the cop registered that the woman had a gun only as she began shooting.

Two shots echoed in the night. The officer’s went into the darkness, its final location lost. But the woman’s had found its target and the cop crumbled.

The video recording continued. It was nearly useless, registering only that a petite female – masked – approached the car. Straight brunette hair swung at shoulder length. Oddly, it complimented the amber and topaz Carnivale mask she wore. But then her figure was lost to view as she moved to the officer’s body.

Hidden by the cruiser’s door, her swift brutal movements were disguised. After a few minutes of recording only a still car, the dispatch radio started to seek a response. Then the woman reappeared on camera. She walked calmly to her vehicle and drove away at a relaxed pace.

 

Chapter Three

Sara Sidle eased the Tahoe into place as directed by the officer controlling the scene. Between the headlights and the halogen flood lamps, the crime scene was a slice of day in the middle of the Vegas night. As she stepped from the vehicle with her kit, she noted the resentment on the faces of the people working the crime. It was always a personal offense when the victim was a cop.

Wasting no time, she walked up to the familiar figure of Brass. “Well?”

His face was closed and sullen as he stared at the police cruiser and the body of the fallen officer. “Dispatch recorded that Officer Paul Williams stopped a car at 11:21 P.M. for speeding. The tag showed the car was stolen earlier the same day. When no further response was received on the stop and they couldn’t raise the officer, a second car was dispatched. They found him like this.”

Sara edged closer to the car. Her face scrunched up as she looked down at the back of the body. It was an unusual enough sight that she exclaimed, “What the hell?”

Jim’s frown deepened as she crouched. He continued to give case details as she began to take pictures and make her initial examination.

“As you can see, he was shot. Most likely a single slug, entry right between the eyes.”

The CSI’s face was twisted as she leaned over. “It blew the back of his head out.”

“There’s a gun that isn’t the victim’s. It may be our suspect dropped it.”

Sara frowned. “If the suspect dropped it, it’s unlikely we’ll be able to trace it back to them.” She paused before continuing with disgust, “And what the hell is this?”

The assistant coroner was crouched opposite the victim’s feet. He was waiting for Sara’s word that they could collect and remove the body after her study and gathering of evidence.

“Those are his lungs.”

She stared at David without blinking. “His lungs?”

He nodded, shrugging at her moue of pure disgust. “Doc Robbins can tell you more, of course. But it looks like they’re intact.”

***

The cop was facedown on the steel table, even though he’d already been processed and cleaned. Sara grimaced even as Al Robbins began to point.

“Cause of death was a single gunshot wound to the head. No shell was recovered, likely due to the loss of cranial mass. The entry wound is consistent with a medium caliber handgun – 9 mm, .38, .45 – something along those lines. In particular, the entry is only millimeters from being precisely equidistant from the temples.”

Sara leapt upon the useful information. “So a marksman – ex-military or police experience.”

Al nodded. “Or an enthusiast with a great deal of practice. What’s especially interesting is the position of the lungs.”

The CSI edged back momentarily as he folded the deflated organs to the center of the body.

“The lungs were extracted through two locations here and here.” His fingers moved as he spoke, indicating the spots. “The wounds are post mortem. They are also unusually precise. I’d say a single stroke of a hatchet or small hand axe.”

“But why pull his lungs out his back?”

He folded the lungs back into a flat position. “It’s a Norse sacrificial custom known as ‘The Bloody Eagle.’ Highly uncommon. It’s usually seen with serial kills or ritual murderers.”

“So why do this to an already dead cop?”

“Maybe they liked how it looked.”

Al shrugged as Sara’s expression showed how little she appreciated his typical macabre humor. Unrepentant, he passed her a container from next to the body.

“This was found taped to the small of his back.”

She rattled the metal object. “It looks like a safe deposit key.”

Dr. Robbins smiled. “Most people keep them in a desk or on a key ring.”

Sara returned the look, suddenly eager. Her eyebrow arched as she speculated, “Maybe he was hiding something.”

***

It was a short while later as Sara was reviewing the file when she was approached by her supervisor.

“Sara?”

She didn’t look up immediately from the file and results that were so clearly unhelpful.

“Yeah, Gris?”

“I’ve got an assignment for you.”

Frustrated, she met his eyes. “I’m still working that DB you gave me earlier.”

There was amusement on Grissom’s face that made her narrow her eyes.

“What?”

He dropped the slip in front of her. “The fire department extinguished a car. The tag matches your suspect.”

Immediately, she was scrambling for her keys.

 

Chapter Four

Conrad Ecklie was checking his first of the morning messages and mail when the night shift supervisor entered his office.

“I do not have time this morning, Grissom. Make an appointment.”

Gil’s jaw clenched, his hackles immediately raised by the politico in charge of the lab.

“I need you to authorize a transfer from the FBI’s Behavioral Sciences. It can’t wait.”

Pink message slips in hand, Conrad narrowed his eyes suspiciously at the other man.

“Why?”

Grissom proffered a file that Ecklie made no move to accept. “We’ve had two bodies in the last two shifts – both with unusual circumstances. The second one was presented in a manner known as ‘The Bloody Eagle.’ Now, this hasn’t been seen in this country for several years.”

“Gil, let me ask you something.”

Grissom stopped offering the file and waited. He’d only hoped this would be easy. He’d known it wouldn’t be.

“Yes, Conrad?”

“Only one of these cases is on your shift.”

“The second, yes.”

“Then why isn’t Ms. Williams here requesting the same information?”

“I haven’t yet had the chance to speak to Catherine about the cases.”

“And yet – here you are.”

“Look, Conrad. These cases are connected. We’re going to have a serious problem unless we deal with them as such.”

“Tell me once again why this necessitates contacting the FBI. An action that, I can advise you, will seriously disturb the Sheriff. Particularly after your shift screwed up the Mapp case.”

Grissom’s jaw tightened again. His working with Ecklie was going to make his dentist a very rich man. He was grinding his teeth – again.

“In both cases, the manners of death are duplicates of crimes by Hannibal Lecter.”

Conrad froze. He carefully placed his messages on the desk. Folding his hands, he leaned into the chair and stared at Grissom with ill-disguised dislike.

“Tell me you are not suggesting that Dr. Hannibal Lecter is killing people in Las Vegas.”

Gil shook his head. “No, neither of the bodies has been cannibalized in any way and Las Vegas would viscerally offend him. I believe we’re dealing with either a copycat or a groupie of some sort.”

Conrad’s deep breath of relief belied his unworried exterior. “Then why is it that you with to contact the FBI?”

The expression on Gill Grissom’s face was cause for worry. It was equal parts fear and anticipation. He quirked an eyebrow as he responded, “I might be wrong.”

Ecklie’s reply was unequivocal. “No.”

“No?”

“That’s what I said – No.”

“But, Conrad…”

Ecklie cut him off. “Listen to me, Grissom. We are not going to cause a public panic simply because your paranoid family history has you jumping at shadows. Do you understand me?”

There was a momentary flash of something in Grissom’s eyes. It was the same something that made him so good at his job. The thing that understood the criminal mind and could envision the crime itself.

“Do you understand me?”

Grissom finally answered, pulled from his mini-fugue state by Ecklie’s repetition.

“Clearly.”

 

Interlude Three

There were few things more uncomfortable than a government funded hotel room. In order to spare expense, they were usually small, out of the way, and aesthetically numbing. When they were expected to perform double duty as a field office, they also gained the distinction of being crowded by multiple stacks of paper and files.

Tired of being cooped up inside, the agent slid his room key into a pocket and checked his weapon in its holster. He had expected to return to the East coast. But, when Alan Bloom was killed, everything changed. He would be in Las Vegas until the Bureau was certain that the psychologist’s death had nothing to do with his consulting work.

A walk down The Strip was unusually calming for a person such as he… Someone whose profession relied on the observation of humanity.

But he was unprepared for the sudden embrace by a short, blonde dynamo.

“Darling!”

Her arms slid around his neck. His hands, raised to free him from the grasp and obvious mistaken identity, faltered as he felt a stinging pressure on the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am.”

His words tapered off as he began to blink with a faint disorienting wooziness. When her glasses slipped and he recognized the eyes behind the darkened lenses, panic began to set in.

“You!”

The woman only smiled as his increased pulse spread the drug faster through his system. She balanced his larger body as he became unsteady.

“Oh, honey…. You’ve had too much to drink. Let’s get you back to the hotel.”

As she flagged down a taxi and loaded him inside, no one in the passing humanity registered a concern. At most, they noted that she had a lovely soft accent and was kind despite her companion's obvious excess.

 

Chapter Five

Catherine Willows observed the crime scene as the body was pulled from the water. It was impossible to remove the gawkers. The body had, after all, been found floating next to the pirate ship used in the Treasure Island’s famous show.

The divers laid the victim on the pavement. Police officers held the curious away while photographs and initial data were taken. Catherine eased open the soggy suit jacket with her gloved hand. She was surprised to see a gun, still buckled into a shoulder holster, beneath the tailoring. The detective, equally amazed, shot her a quizzical look.

Catherine flipped open the unexpected double fold from the jacket’s inside pocket. After a quick look, she held it up for the officer.

“Special Agent Clint Pearsall, FBI.”

After Detective Veiga took the badge and identification, she removed the victim’s regular wallet. Credit cards and cash were still tucked neatly away.

“He hasn’t been robbed and his weapon’s still here.”

The detective leaned over the body. “What’s that on his chest?”

Catherine flipped open the unbuttoned edges of the dress shirt. The undershirt had been cut smoothly down the center. She pressed the flesh, taking a closer look at lacerations in his skin.

“It looks like words… carved into his chest. Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity.”

***

Catherine was frustrated and getting more antagonized by the hour. She was down a CSI with Nick out of town. Warrick was getting nowhere on the Bloom murder. Now, she had her own too-clean crime scene and victim.

Pushing through the swinging doors, she exchanged greetings with an assistant coroner before approaching the slab and her victim.

“What have we got?”

Al pursed his lips. “Well, if bodies keep appearing at this rate, this won’t be my last double shift this week.”

Catherine snorted. “I hear that.”

Uncovering the victim’s chest, he went to work. “Your victim was carved pre-mortem.”

“Seems too even.”

“He was drugged – heavily. Tox screen showed lethal amounts of Ketamine.”

“The horse tranquilizer?”

“One and the same. He was so far under he didn’t even twitch. The wounds are incised too precisely for a knife or blunt tool. Perhaps a vegetable peeler or a specialized scarification implement.”

“Injection site?”

Dr. Robbins turned the head to reveal a nickel-sized contusion high on the neck. “Pressure injector.”

Catherine shook her head. “This is impossible… second clean crime…”

“Sara had one last night.”

She looked up, meeting the concern in his eyes. “So, the third you’ve seen this week.”

“Uh huh.”

“Crap.”

Her annoyed exclamation was an effective summary of the situation.

 

Chapter Six

Gil Grissom’s office was occupied hours earlier than Catherine had expected. She passed Sara Sidle in the hall, another early and unanticipated face, and watched her former supervisor rub at the bridge of his nose.

“You’re early.”

He looked up when she spoke. For a moment, fear, worry, and exasperation were visible before his face went impassive. “What can I do for you?”

“I wanted to talk about a weird case.”

Grissom rolled his eyes. “Which one?”

“Clint Pearsall, murder vic.”

Gil picked up his glasses from his desk. He tapped the earpiece against his teeth for a moment. “Special Agent Clint Pearsall?”

Catherine settled into a chair. “Uh huh.”

Grissom thought for a moment before questioning, “The scene and body were too clean?”

“How’d you know?”

“He’s the third unusual DB. And I think I know how they’re connected.”

Catherine opened her arms, clearly inviting an explanation. She waited, somewhat patiently.

“Clint Pearsall was Ardelia Mapp’s direct report. Sara’s vic was found with a safe deposit key taped to him. They recovered the missing Mapp evidence kit from the deposit box.”

Catherine sat up at that, shocked. “What?!”

Gil nodded in confirmation. “But how is Bloom connected?”

“Warrick’s case?”

“They’re all too clean. This is professional. Murder like this is personal, so perhaps someone with forensics experience?”

Catherine interrupted his musing with a question. “How do you know they’re connected?”

Grissom frowned, his gaze distant. “It’s a gut feeling. The manner of death for Bloom is,” he hesitated, “familiar. The evidence indicates that he should have survived.”

“But he didn’t.”

Catherine’s rebuttal was flat. It was obvious she wasn’t following the train of thought or the instinct.

There was something sparking in Grissom’s eyes as he leaned forward into the desk. He pointed with the arm of his glasses. “But he should have… That’s what makes this connected.”

Catherine rolled her eyes. It was not uncommon for her to be impatient with this man. “Well… Are you going to tell me or not?”

The sudden ringing of his office phone interrupted their conversation. His own irritation at the noise was obvious even as he answered.

“Grissom.”

Catherine’s eyes widened at the almost comical look of shock on Gil’s face.

“Judge Stokes?”

She sat forward in her seat at the name. Grissom’s jaw tightened as what he heard obviously confused him.

“Just a moment, Sir.”

He leaned towards the female supervisor. His hand covered the phone’s mouthpiece. Even so, his voice was pitched so as not to be picked up by the sensitive receiver.

“We need to go through the case files. Mapp is the link but Bloom is the key to our suspect.”

Catherine nodded. As she began to leave the office, Gil’s half of the conversation followed her.

“Your Honor, I’m sorry. Nick left on his scheduled vacation time. He wasn’t asked to return to the office.”

A faint pause and the scratching of a pen.

“I have no idea why your son hasn’t contacted you but I will look into this.”

The sound of the phone being slammed down was an uncharacteristic echo.

 

Interlude Four

Relaxing into his study, the man was holding a glass of scotch before noticing that the room was occupied.

“Who are you?”

She only smiled and gestured to the chair flanking the empty hearth and across from where she sat.

“Have a seat, please.”

“Now see here…”

His indignation tapered off as she raised a gloved hand from her lap. The gun pointed steadily at him caused a spike of fear.

“Please, make yourself comfortable. It’s not my desire to drag this out.”

An oddly sweet smile crossed her face before she spoke again. “Your wife and son are expected home. Surely you would rather I were gone before that occurred?”

For a man who spent his life in the justice system, he found her oddly courteous. Perhaps, he thought, he might be okay.

 

Chapter Seven

Greg stared at Warrick across the conference table. They were each just waiting. For Greg, it was the start of a double shift since he’d been called in early. For Warrick, it also promised to be a long night.

“Gris, man, what’s going on?”

As Gil Grissom entered the room, two file boxes carefully balanced in his arms, he could only nod to acknowledge he’d heard the question. The two CSIs took the identical folders passed to them by the supervisor.

“Any open cases that either of you were working on have been reassigned. You are now both to focus exclusively on the Mapp case.”

Greg’s objection was only noise but Warrick was a little more focused.

“We’re already short because of Nick’s vacation. This is going to kill us.”

Grissom’s face was harder, colder, than usual when he replied to the objection.

“People out there are dying because of this case. We have recovered the evidence box. I want to know who killed Ardelia Mapp and I want to know if there is anyone connected to her that is capable and willing to kill on her behalf.”

Greg sighed but accepted the necessity of the assignment. “We had a preliminary DNA result before. It’ll piss the new tech off, but I’ll re-run everything myself.”

Warrick only nodded his assent. Trusting that the work would get done, Gil left the room.

***

When he finally reached someone with authority at the airline, Grissom was beyond frustrated.

“The passenger’s name was Nick Stokes. S. T. O. K. E. S. Flight number 482 from Las Vegas.”

There was the faint tapping of keys on the other end of the line. Then, a short pause before the airline employee’s reply.

“Our records show that the passengers on that flight were notified of a possible measles exposure. We weren’t able to reach Mr. Stokes, but that was less of a concern since it was his physician who informed us of the infection.”

“His physician?” Gil asked.

“Yes, Dr. John Enders. I believe he was on the same flight.”

Gil thought for a moment. It was possible that Nick fell ill. Catherine had mentioned Lindsey’s succumbing to the childhood illness. It was not uncommon for an adult to get sick if their vaccine failed. The information, however, didn’t feel right.

“Have any of the other passengers become infected?”

“None that have been reported, Dr. Grissom. If you’d like, I can provide the physician’s contact information.”

Gil took down the information as it was read to him. Again, something about the details seemed off. He barely remembered to proffer thanks for the information as his mind was moving forward.

If they were lucky, this was merely a situation with Nick’s parents not having checked their messages. Gil didn’t want to even consider the possibilities if they weren’t lucky.

 

Chapter Eight

Brass knocked on the doorjamb as he stood in the entrance to Gil Grissom’s office. The noise disturbed the bespectacled man as he jerked his head away from his computer monitor. The obvious graphics of a Google search were visible to the cop from the doorway.

Grissom was more than slightly abrupt as he removed his glasses and asked, “What?”

The snippish tone caused Jim to raise his brow in inquiry. When no answer was volunteered, he went straight to business.

“We’ve got another 419 just reported. I think you should take this scene personally.”

Gil frowned. He knew, without a doubt, that this request was a bad sign. Considering they already were talking murder, a bad sign meant really bad.

“Who is it?”

“Judge Todd Sandburg.”

"Presided over the Mapp grand jury?”

“The one and only.”

Brass couldn’t quite hear Grissom’s response. From experience, he knew that the tone and inflection bespoke profanity.

***

The scene had been catalogued, photographed, evidence gathered, and the body removed. Gil stood alone in the expensively appointed study. He knew they’d lost any chance of these cases not turning into a media frenzy. The press always gathered when the victim was high profile.

There was an eerie silence surrounding him as he stood, staring into the empty hearth. He was looking for a part of himself he’d rarely utilized. Despite knowing it was there, even trying to find it scared him.

“Gil, you about done here?”

Jim Brass’ voice startled him. When Gil looked up and met his friend’s eyes, his thoughts were disturbing. In that instant, he registered five different ways to kill the police captain. He was certain that two of them could be done without alerting anyone outside the room.

Something of his dismay must have shown on his face as Jim repeated his name in a questioning tone, “Gil?”

Grissom shrugged off the inquiry, not wanting to lose the carefully found mindset. He hadn’t allowed himself to think this way since Paul Millander.

“I’ll be done soon… A few more minutes.”

Disturbed and not knowing why, Jim left Gil to his examination of the room. Grissom examined the study with new eyes.

The judge was a highly regimental man. A former Army Ranger, his sanctuary was kept in perfect military order.

Gil knew the body had been discovered by the wife after a day’s absence with their child. He knew that the judge had been in court until shortly before his return home. He also knew that the housekeeper had allowed an unnamed associate to wait in the study for his Honor's return.

It was their first break. A witness to the suspect’s face was alive and in protective custody.

Gil turned. He could see the judge’s oddly precise pace as he opened both the study doors and entered the room. He wasn't the type to seek out a servant, so the woman waiting would have been a surprise. She’d waited long enough to cause a bodily indention in the leather chair. Gil knew she’d simply sat with a true predator’s patience.

There were no signs of a struggle. The judge had sat in the opposite chair willingly. A threat made against his soon to return family? The underestimation of a female killer by an ex-military man? Both, Gil decided with a small nod.

The judge’s chair had been removed for further examination. Gil stood where it had been. Then, the height wrong, he crouched. He stared at the other chair as the shadowy figure of the killer spoke. There was a suggestion of form and face as his mind strove to fill the gaps.

She had spoken to her victim. All of the murders were about justice – vengeance - for Ardelia Mapp. She had explained to the judge why he was going to die.

Then she’d shot him.

He knew there had been no hesitation. He knew she felt no remorse for this or any of the deaths. She wasn’t local. She’d come here intending to work her will.

Grissom held up an evidence bag. Inside was a scrap of paper found just under the judge’s chair. It was a top edge of a larger piece with a small distortion.

Looking closer at the distortion, Gil asked himself why the suspect would completely remove the piece of tape. And he knew, instinctively, that it had been tape on the paper. The only reason to remove something was to prevent the gathering of evidence. Tape was perfect for giving fingerprints.

Gil looked at the judge’s desk. The tape dispenser was askew by millimeters. It was the imperfect return by someone not intimately familiar with the usual order. A closer examination showed a print on the portion of tape suspended between the roll and cutter.

With an odd little smile, Grissom added it to his already gathered evidence. He knew, again instinctively, that the print would not match the household.

 

Interlude Five

It was a nearly universal truth that young adults, on their own for the first time, had crappy, ill-maintained apartments.

This young lady prided herself on denying that stereotype. A parentally funded Bachelor’s in Accounting followed by an Ivy League MBA had turned into a lucrative job with the business end of the casino industry.

After a long day balancing millions of dollars worth of accounts, she slipped off her shoes, shimmied out of her hose, and shucked her suit jacket. The rapid knock at her front door interrupted the quest for a shower.

“Who is it?” she called through the door, ever mindful of the security of a single woman.

“FBI. Open the door, please.”

As the badge held to the spyhole verified the words, she opened the door with no more hesitation.

“Can I help you?”

The woman at the door seemed severely but professionally put together without a soft, feminine edge. All the attention of the home’s occupant was on the badge still upheld in the woman’s left hand.

“Are you Carolyn Conner?”

“Yes.”

The sudden shot to the chest was unexpected. Followed, as it was, by two more, the body was propelled to sprawl backwards across the foyer.

 

Chapter Nine

The presence of news vans was not a comforting sight as Gil Grissom arrived for his shift. He squeezed past the mania without contributing, ignoring and evading questions. Before he even made it to his office, Gil spied the administrator primping for his statement.

“Conrad, my people cannot do their jobs with that fuss outside.”

Ecklie seemed unusually cheerful and conciliatory for a conversation with Grissom. His satisfied smirk was as oily and irritating as ever.

“Once I inform them that we’re seeking a suspect for questioning, they’ll be on their way.”

Grissom started with surprise. “A suspect? Since when?”

“The print you brought in last night had a match in the system. I’ve had an APB issued on your behalf.”

There was a growing anger clear in Grissom’s features. Like most actions by his overly-political boss, this one was ill-advised.

“Ecklie, this is premature. I haven’t been notified of the results nor have I had the chance to evaluate that compared to the other evidence.”

“The public needs answers, Grissom. I can give them a name.”

“Then at least give me that name first.”

“Will Graham.”

For a moment, Gil was certain that his heart had stopped. Then, convinced that reality couldn’t be as bad as that, he offered a rebuttal.

“Our eyewitness says it’s a woman.”

“Then he has an accomplice.”

Ecklie’s smug certitude was grating along Grissom’s nerves.

“How can you be so certain this is our suspect?”

“A former federal investigator with a history of psychotic breaks? Even if he’s cleared of Judge Sandburg's murder, it makes a fantastic soundbyte.”

As Ecklie turned away, clearly dismissing Grissom’s concern, Gil knew he had one moment to halt this mistake. But he didn’t say anything. If reality was truly that bad, he would need every edge to stop this killer.

He prided himself on being smart enough to bring in his suspects. This time, he began to doubt.

 

Chapter Ten

Sara took the last few steps up to the condominium. She immediately spied the victim’s feet in the open doorway.

“Shit.”

Her soft exclamation drew the detective’s attention. Without hesitating, she raised her professional calm and asked, “What do we have?”

The cop referred momentarily to his notes. “Carolyn Conner, 24. Lived alone. Neighbor noticed the open door and called us.”

Sara leaned to get her first impression of the scene. She was good at her job and was able to make some quick connections.

“Two shots to the chest, one to the head, she fell into the apartment. The killer shot her while standing at the door…”

She turned to the cop, puzzled. “She dies, practically out in the open, and no one saw or heard anything till later?”

He pointed to the weapon practically obscured by the open door. “Silencer.”

Repeating her earlier conclusion, Sara surveyed the scene again and added, “Shit.”

***

Hours later, as she reviewed evidence that she knew would only correspond to the victim, Sara had moved on to far harsher words.

 

Chapter Eleven

Catherine approached Grissom carefully. His entire manner spoke of infuriated disgust. Considering the press free-for-all being courted by their boss, she could understand.

“Gil?”

He looked up, exhaustion and something indefinable written on his face.

“Yeah?”

“Warrick and Greg may have some answers for us.”

With only a sigh, he joined her in heading for the conference room.

“You okay, Gris?”

“Fine, Catherine.”

Despite his assurance, she was unconvinced.

***

Greg was as enthusiastic about his results as ever. With his tendency towards playing to his audience, he likely would have done as well on stage as he did in the sciences.

“We processed all the samples from the recovered kit. Now, the kit was stolen. However, after it was recovered, the photographs verify that the seals were unbroken.”

“So nothing was contaminated?” Grissom questioned.

“And we can still use it all in court,” Greg confirmed with a smile. He continued after a moment's pause.

“Now, the preliminary result that we presented to the grand jury was a substitute. I think I figured out who tampered with the computer. DNA from the vaginal swab on the victim corresponds to the partner of the officer in whose safety deposit box we found our missing evidence.”

“A cop,” Catherine flatly declared.

Warrick interrupted, “Brass is bringing him in for questioning.”

Grissom was tapping a fingertip against the table. It was near silent, but an idiosyncratic nervous tic. “What else do we have?” he asked.

“After the press statement,” Warrick paused, rolling his eyes, “we followed up on Ecklie’s name.”

Greg piped in, “And… get this… The guy he’s trying to say did this… He’s not just some ex-FBI schlub. He’s the man responsible for catching Hannibal Lecter.”

Catherine, Warrick, and Greg were shocked when that seemed to trigger Grissom’s fuse.

“I didn’t ask you to follow up on Ecklie’s political fantasy! I want to know who could be killing on behalf of Ardelia Mapp.”

There was a moment of shocked silence after Grissom’s outburst. Warrick’s eyes narrowed but he gave the answer to silently shelter his disturbed work partner.

“We’ve gotten responses on the whereabouts of almost all Mapp’s known colleagues and associates. No living family but a roommate at the FBI Academy reported missing five years ago.”

“Who?” Grissom asked as his phone began to ring.

“Clarice Starling.”

Grissom clearly didn’t like hearing that name. He deferred the discussion to Catherine as he stepped across the room to answer his insistent cell.

“Grissom.”

“Hello, Gilliam.”

He didn’t recognize the voice and there were few people who called him by his full first name. Pulling the phone away to peer at the display, he noted the Texas area code.

“Who is this?”

“Such a disappointment, Gilliam. After my long association with your brother, I had flattered myself that I would be recognized.”

Grissom sucked in a sharp breath, his only audible confirmation that the connection to a name had been made. To his credit, he recovered quickly.

“Where’s my CSI?”

“None of the social niceties, Gilliam?”

His conversation drew the attention of the three at the table as Gil practically growled into the phone.

“Just tell me if Nick is still alive.”

“Our dear Nicholas is recovering quite well from his infection. A pity what Rubeola does to the body. He did appear so tasty.”

Despite his even breathing, the fist clenching at Grissom’s side betrayed his mood. He ignored the increasingly strident questions from the room behind him.

“What is it you want, Doctor?”

“To ensure my continuing freedom, Dr. Grissom.”

“If you’re a part of these murders, we will put you away again.”

“I am not personally involved in your little contretemps.”

“Then why have you taken Nick?”

“As I said, Gilliam, to ensure my freedom. I have no desire to be accused for any crime in your déclassé city. Those are the efforts of a little bird looking for justice.”

Grissom took a deep breath, rationalizing the promise he was about to make.

“If you’ve done nothing in Las Vegas, then I have no interest or jurisdiction over any crime you may have committed.”

The smile and satisfaction was clear in the silky voice coming through Grissom's phone.

“Then your investigator will be returned to you – unharmed.”

“Thank you.”

“We are men of honor, Dr. Grissom,” was the only response he received before silence signaled a closed connection.

Catherine removed the cellphone from Gil’s nerveless hand. She glanced at the now empty display before demanding, “What the hell was that?”

Grissom seemed to have recovered his composure as he replied, “A deal with the devil.”

 

Chapter Twelve

After his unexpected cellular conversation, Gil cornered Ecklie on his way out of the building.

“Conrad, I need a moment.”

“Not now, Grissom,” was the insouciant reply.

“Now, Ecklie,” Grissom demanded.

Moments later, they were facing off over Ecklie’s desk. Conrad was clearly furious.

“I’m not quite sure who you think you are, Grissom. You are not in charge of this lab and I expect your cooperation.”

“I will not help you undermine our investigations.”

Conrad smirked. He had the upper hand in their ever-continuing battles. “The Sheriff is in agreement with my actions.”

“Then you are both imbeciles.”

Grissom’s flat declaration had his boss snarling mad.

“Watch yourself, Grissom. I can charge you with insubordination.”

“Reprimand me if you like. I’m more concerned with our announced suspect being long dead and one of my investigators held hostage.”

It was enough of a disclosure to put a pause on Ecklie’s indignation.

“What are you talking about?”

It was Grissom’s turn to give that smug, superior smirk.

“You were so quick to point your public finger at my brother. You should have re-read the file, Ecklie. He’s been dead for five years… And Nick Stokes is missing.”

Conrad gathered his ego around himself like a shield. “You gathered the evidence, Grissom. You can’t pin this on me. I do believe that Nick is one of Catherine’s investigators. So if you will please keep your paranoid delusions to yourself.”

“Ecklie…”

Conrad cut him off, “That is all, Grissom.”

 

Interlude Six

As a man aged, he appreciated the past through which he had lived. Once upon a time, he strolled down the Strip with his wife. He’d outlived his wife. He’d also outlived his legs’ ability to walk such a distance.

These days the Strip was viewed from a lower vantage point. The motorized scooter was not quite a wheelchair but increased his mobility. Fortunately, it allowed him the chance to be out and about. The restriction was nowhere near the closeted life of most elderly.

The Bellagio fountains were particularly entrancing on this clear desert day. As much as he enjoyed the play of water, sound, and light, the reactions of the watchers were just as enjoyable.

Jostling within the crowd didn’t bother him. The scooter did, after all, guarantee a certain amount of personal space.

With an exclamation of pain, he reached for the back of his neck.

“Oh, I am so sorry…”

He wasn’t too old to enjoy the woman’s cleavage as she leaned in and apologized. It seemed odd that a purse could cause that type of pain. The suspicious thought disappeared as the woman faded into the crowd and he struggled to breathe.

 

Chapter Thirteen

Catherine was reviewing case notes as the shift progressed. It was quiet, which usually boded ill. Either she was about to be blindsided by a crime wave or there would be another unexplained body. Considering their ultimate lack of evidence lately, she’d almost prefer the crime wave.

The sudden tones of her beeper broke the early evening quiet. As she wasn’t waiting on any autopsy results, Al Robbins’ name was a surprise.

***

The medical examiner’s area was as unnaturally hushed as always. The difference was the nervous patrolman being questioned just outside by a detective.

“Ms. Willows?”

The call had her pausing with her hand on the door to the autopsy bay. The detective slipped away from the patrolman to meet her.

“I’m sorry about the circumstances of this case.”

Catherine turned, curiosity warring with mild frustration on her face.

“What, exactly, are the circumstances of this case, detective?”

He gestured the patrolman forward to explain.

“Dispatch forwarded me a call early this afternoon about a non-responsive man in a wheelchair outside the Bellagio fountains. Paramedics on the scene confirmed his death and he had a DNR Medic Alert bracelet. There was nothing to indicate foul play. This kind of thing does happen all the time.”

The detective waved the officer away with a swift, irritated gesture. “Procedure says any unattended death is confirmed by an autopsy. The body was brought in to identify whether it was heat stroke, heart attack, the usual. As it turns out, we have a homicide rather than natural causes.”

Catherine sighed heavily. “And the scene’s gone so we only have the body.”

“Right.”

***

Al Robbins was, as usual, professionally impartial to the body on his slab.

“Jeremiah Roth, 84. His medic alert indicated an intolerance for penicillin and a desire not to be revived.”

He reached for a small vial with a deposit of white crystals. “Initial observation showed nothing unusual. There was a bruise on the back of his neck covered in that.”

Catherine popped the top and sniffed delicately. Even with that miniscule whiff, she jerked her head back.

“Smells like… ammonia.”

“The bruise was consistent with a pressure injector. As I can find no indications of a cerebral incident or myocardial infarction, I’d say your victim was probably poisoned.”

“Can you get something like that into a pressure vial?”

“You’d have to do it yourself… and the amount would be minor… but, yes.”

“Enough to kill.”

“If he were younger, he may have gotten to treatment. As it is…”

As Robbin’s voice tapered off, Catherine just nodded. “Thanks.”

 

Chapter Fourteen

“Catherine!”

She had ignored the first call of her name but that only resulted in Greg getting louder. Finally, she paused in the corridor to allow him to catch up.

“What is it, Sanders?”

“We have to talk – in private.”

He seemed so sincere and so unusually subdued that she acquiesced without a fuss. They were alone moments later in the conference room plastered with their serial killer’s efforts.

“Okay, after Gris freaked about Will Graham, I followed up.”

“Greg…”

He ignored Catherine’s warning tone to interrupt, “No, you have to hear this. William Graham, Special Investigator, is listed in the Federal database as DNA inconclusive. Now, there are a very limited number of reasons for that. His reason is a monozygotic sibling.”

“An identical twin?”

“Right. So I looked a little further. Mr. Graham used his middle name professionally. He was born William Graham Ardgall. He graduated with his brother – Gilliam Grissom Ardgall.”

Greg laid a color printout on the table. It was a college graduating class with two familiar, identical men. Catherine knew she had to be practically gaping in shock. The night supervisor was notoriously private, but this pushed the bounds.

“Grissom’s brother is our primary suspect?”

Greg shook his head and added a police report to the table.

“Nope. He committed suicide five years ago. Shortly after a situation involving Hannibal Lecter and the Vergers.”

“There was something about that in the news...”

He nodded. “Major news. What wasn’t mentioned was that an FBI agent went missing at the same time – Clarice Starling.”

Catherine leaned back, thinking. “So what does all this tell us?”

Greg shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m betting that Grissom does.”

***

Gil Grissom had barely arrived on shift before Catherine had physically dragged him into his office. The insistent grip on his arm was such a surprise that he simply neglected to shake it off. By the time the door had closed behind them, he had recovered.

“Catherine, I don’t have time for this. I need to make some calls.”

“Make time, Gris. Or should I say, Dr. Ardgall?”

Gil closed his eyes, cursing quietly. They both sat, a moment passing before he asked tiredly, “What do you want to know?”

Catherine threw her hands up before speaking. “Shit, Gil, where to start? How about, where’s Nick?”

Grissom was almost preternaturally composed as he replied, “In Lecter’s custody.”

“What?! How the hell do you know that?”

“He called me.”

“Nick?”

“No, Lecter.”

Catherine stopped, frozen for just a moment. “Your deal with the devil. Oh my god, Nick’s dead.”

Grissom shook his head. His hands played idly with the glasses on the desk before him.

“No, he’s not. He won’t be either, if we do this correctly.”

“How can you possibly know that?!”

Catherine’s anger seemed to grow in the face of Grissom’s calm.

“Because Lecter gave his word.”

“And you’re just going to trust a cannibalistic serial killer?”

Gil sighed, knowing there was no possible way this would make any sort of sense to his co-worker.

“Yes. He kills but he won’t lie to me. He’ll return Nick alive and I won’t attempt to hunt him.”

“There’s a permanent part of the FBI assigned to looking for him, Gil. Why would he care about you?”

“Because he sees me as an equal. Will caught him. I’m Will’s mirror image. Therefore, he doesn’t want me to have a reason to look.”

Catherine gritted her teeth and didn’t say anything for several moments. When she did speak, she asked, “So who’s our killer?”

“Clarice Starling.”

“What’s the connection?”

“They’re lovers.”

“Starling and Lecter?” Catherine’s disgust was almost palpable in the question.

Gil only smirked slightly in response. Finally, Catherine stood.

“You know what, Gil? You go ahead and do what you’re gonna do. The rest of us will just keep following the evidence.”

When she left, disgusted, he simply turned to the phone. There were arrangements to be made. He had locations for Judge Stokes’ people to check. Most amusing of all, he had an Ecklie to manipulate.

 

Chapter Fifteen

The night shift had been quiet, a small blessing. Gil wondered, not for the first time, how Will had lasted for so long. It was a dangerous and demented game of cat and mouse. Idly, he considered if it would drive him too into suicide.

A vibration on his belt outpaced the shrill cellphone ring by mere moments. Not really preferring to use his phone while driving, these were circumstances that led Gil to break his own rules.

“Grissom.”

“Dr. Grissom, this is Bill Stokes.”

“Judge Stokes. I’m sorry but I don’t have any new answers for you yet.”

“That’s not why I’m calling.”

“Oh?”

“The FBI conducted a property raid last evening based on a phone call you received.”

Grissom’s features froze for a moment. Part of his mind continued the task of driving safely through early morning Vegas traffic. The other part quickly determined who had reported his contact and potentially ruined his arrangement – Catherine, damnit.

“Are you still there, Dr. Grissom?”

Rather than answer the inane inquiry, Gil redirected the conversation.

“What were the results of the raid?”

“My son was recovered. The doctors tell us he’s been heavily sedated but has been properly treated for an adult cases of the measles.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“According to the agents, it’s possible they missed Dr. Lecter by minutes. We won’t know for sure until Nick wakes up but the evidence indicates he was there.”

“Evidence doesn’t lie, Your Honor. He was there.”

There was an odd momentary silence on the line before the Texan replied. “I believe my son is alive because of you, Dr. Grissom, so I’m going to give you a heads up. The Justice department will be monitoring you for contact. If he does, report it immediately. Don’t let him ruin your life.”

After the conversation ended, Grissom replaced the phone on his belt. He parked, sitting there for a moment at idle. While he hadn’t started this game, he had played it. Only time would tell how his coworkers would react once the gossip started. That presumed the Sheriff didn’t ‘encourage’ him to retire early as a result of his possible notoriety.

***

Grissom unlocked his home, entering with a sigh. Some would say the space was barren and cold. It suited him – the open, almost unfinished look.

“Hello, Dr. Grissom.”

He turned, the voice not quite a surprise. It was almost habit, this personal confrontation. He had tolerated bad coffee with Paul, but perhaps this time it would be something better.

“Good morning, Clarice.”

Her eyes narrowed at the near non-reaction she received. This time she was a brunette, her hair feathered into a bob around a carefully made-up face. The expensively tailored suit shifted as she leaned into his couch. Her gun was beside her on the cushion.

Grissom catalogued everything about her appearance. Mentally noting the lack of gloves, he nodded internally. They’d come to the endgame.

“You don’t seem surprised to see me, Dr. Grissom.”

“Were you attempting to surprise me?” he asked as he moved into the room and crossed to his small kitchen.

“Would you like a cup of tea, Clarice?”

She seemed disconcerted as he began to heat water and gathered the components of a tea tray.

“Your department failed Ardelia.”

He paused only a moment in transferring the hot water to the teapot. Both hands full with the silver tray, she didn’t reach for her weapon as he brought it to the coffee table.

“Yes, we had. However, I’m certain you’re aware of this morning’s press release. Her killer is in custody.”

Clarice sneered even as she accepted a fine china cup. “Protective custody.”

Gil smiled slightly. He held his saucer with one hand as he leaned against his desk. The clutter hid his hand as he rested it back for balance.

“Protective custody was required, Clarice. I’m hardly doing my job if we simply allow you to kill him.”

She smiled at that, blowing gently across the surface of her tea. “A white Earl Grey?” she asked after a taste.

“Personal preference,” he answered easily.

As she sipped delicately, he raised his hand from the desk. Rather than being free to lift his cup, it already held an object. Grissom pointed the gun that had been disguised by a fall of Entomology magazines. His aim unwavering, he laid his cup and saucer down in an empty spot on the surface.

Starling merely watched him with cold eyes. She was a predator threatened – a dangerous commodity.

“Step away from your weapon, Clarice.”

She smiled, a little too toothily as she stood. As she stepped towards him, Gil’s hand neither shook nor twitched.

“Turn around and place your hands on your head. If you make a threatening move, I will shoot you.”

Grissom stated his terms calmly and without hesitation. From Starling’s expression, she not only didn’t believe him, she underestimated him. Perhaps she would have complied if she could have heard his heartbeat pumping steadily away without an increase in speed.

For when Clarice Starling reached for him, Gil Grissom did exactly as promised. He shot her.

The sudden bloom of crimson showed clearly on white linen. Clarice paused, confused at the sound and pain. Her tentative step forward preceded the second shot. A silent questioning shock on her face, she crumbled.

Grissom stepped away. Well-deserved paranoia had him continuing to train his gun on the prone form even as he removed his cellphone from his belt.

 

Chapter Sixteen

Gil could admit that it was an unusual perspective, being on this side of an interrogation. He glanced at the one-way glass in his peripheral vision. It was an idle curiosity as to who was watching from the other side. The room was certainly crowded enough with Brass, Ecklie, Sheriff Atwater, and Agent Culpepper.

“An FBI agent is dead!”

The statement from their local FBI field representative drew Grissom attention back to the political and bureaucratic fray.

“I was under the impression that Starling had been classified as resigned without notice.”

It was apparent that Jim was amused by Gil’s comment. The others probably couldn’t see his smirk through the ire they were directing at Grissom.

“A woman is dead, Dr. Grissom.”

The Sheriff’s flat declaration brought a stillness to the room. Gil didn’t flinch.

“Yes, Sheriff. I shot her. Would you have preferred I allow her to kill me?”

The dry sarcasm wasn’t well received. Culpepper began immediately protesting the FBI’s innocence. Ecklie clearly wouldn’t have mourned at Grissom’s death. But the Sheriff… it was possible, as usual, that he just didn’t know.

Jim stepped out of the room at a knock on the door. Conrad, seeing an opportunity, turned to Atwater.

“I believe it’s best if Dr. Grissom is suspended pending an investigation into this shooting and his handling of the Mapp case.”

The Sheriff had not yet responded when Jim reentered the room. His smug expression was missed by none of them.

“Yes, Captain Brass?”

“The Bellagio has confirmed that the key card found on Starling was issued to a Mischa Robin. The floor attendant was able to match Ms. Robin to Ms. Starling. Day shift is examining a laptop but the papers found in the room indicate that Starling was exacting revenge for her former roommate.”

The Sheriff ignored Ecklie and Culpepper’s exclamations. He gestured for Jim to finish.

“Nick’s awake. He’s positively identified his abductor as Dr. Lecter.”

Atwater simple looked at Ecklie for a moment.

“Dr. Grissom will not be suspended.” He turned to Gil before continuing, “However, any leave that may be needed will be approved, paid of course. Grissom…”

Whatever the Sheriff might have continued to say was interrupted by the trilling of a cellphone. They each checked their belts but the call was Gil’s. He answered it with only a scant hesitation.

“Grissom.”

“Gilliam… I expect you’ve been informed that your boy was returned hale and hearty.”

It was only slightly discomforting to receive such intense scrutiny while conducting a discourse with a known serial killer.

“Thank you for releasing Nick unharmed.”

“A professional courtesy, I assure you. One that you did not return, Gilliam.”

It was odd that Grissom only grew more relaxed as the onlookers grew more agitated.

“Clarice chose the outcome when she threatened me, Hannibal.”

“So she did. Has the FBI already attempted to entice you with promises of fame and travel?”

Grissom’s answer was unequivocal. “I have no intention to work anywhere other than Las Vegas.”

“Then it won’t be necessary for us to make a more personal acquaintance. Goodbye, Dr. Grissom.”

“Goodbye, Dr. Lecter.”

Gil laid his cell on the table. Only now, with it all over, were his hands permitted a faint tremor.

 

Epilogue

It had been several months but Catherine still walked around him like she was waiting for an Exorcist-style outburst. Luckily, the entire scandal had killed the last of Sara’s determined hero-worship crush. Greg seemed to be restraining his natural curiosity and Warrick plain didn’t care.

But Nick…

Nick seemed to accept the resulting tension with a silent support. The hope that it would all blow over kept Gil from retiring of his own volition as he ignored Ecklie’s repeated attempts to force the issue.

“Delivery!”

Grissom looked up from his paperwork with a small smile. He could see the deliberate cheerfulness in the man holding the shoebox-sized package.

“Nicky. How are you?”

The younger CSI smiled at the night shift supervisor. A faint echo of his Texan twang still lingered in his voice – a side effect of his visit home after the hospital. Nick set the box on the corner of the desk before sprawling in a chair.

“I’m fine, Gris. I know everyone’s still a little freaked out. I thought you should know that I do appreciate what you did.”

Gil leaned forward, earnest. “Nick, this isn’t necessary. I’d do the same for any of my team.”

“Yeah, it is, Gris. I mean – the rest of them don’t understand how someone so scary was also so polite and nice at times. But I need to thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me.”

It was Nick’s turn to lean forward. An almost private, confessional tone accompanied his response.

“I don’t know if I’d be alive without you. Just accept the thanks.”

Gil nodded his understanding. “You’re welcome, Nicky.”

The Texan grinned widely as he stood. No more exchange was necessary as the two parted. Grissom brought the package closer to him, untying it and lifting the lid. The note on top was clearly visible and he held it to the light.

~Gilliam. I have not experienced such a delightful exchange since dear William. A meeting of equals provides such satisfaction and purpose in the dull monotony of routine. Have you asked yourself if you’ve spent too long staring into the abyss? H~

Disregarding the possible evidence, the expensive paper crumbled in Grissom’s hand. With care, he lifted the bottle beneath from its nest.

Chateau d’Yquem, 1956.


End file.
